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snz-thoughts · 2 days

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In Sickness, and in Health (M, cold, pt. 2/2)

Yay :) part 2 of this! Thank you to the people who read part 1 and were so kind about it. It's been very exciting to actually be WRITING again (I have never been so productive in my whole entire life omg) and to have something wrapped up for everyone, myself included!

The aftermath of the wedding, some additional suffering, and a little tenderness

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By the time the bulk of the clean-up has taken place, he isn't sure how he's still alive. He's got his face down on the only table that isn't getting packed up to go, having already helped to fill his trunk and that of everyone else who stayed. It's past ten thirty, nearing eleven, and this is so far past his usual bedtime it's absurd. More than that, he's exhausted. The kind of weariness that's seeped into his bones and has him struggling to keep upright, let alone keep his eyes open.

"Hey! Thanks again for being such a huge help. I know it's late, but you're a real lifesaver." One of the men--one of Matt's brothers, he thinks--pats his back, and he has to haul himself to his feet before he's going to be actually sleeping at the table here. Something gets set on the table in front of him--a little bottle of some store brand cold medicine that expired years ago--and he leans down to murmur something in his ear. "I know it's not allergies. I found this in one of the cabinets in the back. You drive safe, okay?"

"I will. I appreciate it." He follows everybody out and watches them lock up, and when the night air hits him, he's shivering so violently that he's half afraid he's going to shake apart at the seams. The trek back to his car is made with the aid of his phone flashlight, and trembling hands fumble with his car keys badly enough that he drops them into the gravel, has to awkwardly half lay on it to scrabble around underneath the car to try and find them.

The prospect of attempting to drive back like this hits him like a truck. He absolutely cannot drive like this. Which means he has to weigh his options. He could call someone to try and come pick him up, but that leaves him with the fact that his car will be stuck here, not to mention that that would mean begging somebody to come make a four hour roundtrip to come pick him up, even if something coul be done with his car. They wouldn't get home until three in the morning. He wouldn't get home until three in the morning. He'd have to wait for them to get there, on top of making them come and get him.

No. The only real choice is that he'll have to just...wait it out.

This is fine. If he just curls up here, he can sleep for about four hours, and then make the drive home, get ready for work, and be into his shift on time. Perfectly manageable. His trunk is currently packed to the gills with chairs he still has to get home, but that just means that he was reminded of the blanket he keeps back there, and it's now flopped into the backseats.

The backseat of his Subaru Impreza is not the most ideal space to sleep--especially not a 1994 station wagon when he's a very leggy 6'3--but he's intent on making it work. The blanket, a somewhat scratchy woolen one, doesn't stretch to cover all of him at once, but the way he's folded up to fit makes it get pretty close, and with Niklas's jacket as a pillow, he can almost pretend that it's comfortable.

The shift in position brings with it a shift in congestion, and laying down like he is, it's got his ears feeling clogged and crackly just like his sinuses, threatening to spark that ache behind his eyes and his teeth, but it isn't there just yet. He's mostly out of tissues, having burned through most of his stock on the drive here, but he affords himself a handful of them to awkwardly prop himself up on one elbow and blow his nose forcefully to try and do as much damage to the wall of congestion as he can in one shot. How effective it is is debatable, but he feels like he has to at least be able to say that he tried.

Some animal makes a sound out in the distance--probably a coyote, if he had to hazard a guess--and he is viscerally reminded that he is laying in a tin can in the middle of God-knows-where, with no cell reception, an almost dead battery, in the pitch dark. He starts the car in such a panic that he almost forgets to throw it into reverse, and sends gravel flying as he practically floors it to a spot in front of the building that is definitely not a parking space, bathed in the dim light of a single fixture above the wall to deter break-ins.

He withdraws a small amount of his disdain for moths. He understands their fixation with lights now.

God, he's feverish. He's dimly aware of the heat of his skin against the jacket, sweaty and smothering, even if he's still so cold he feels like he may as well be stark naked in a snowstorm. He doesn't have anything in the glove box that will help, though, so he really doesn't have much option aside from grinning and bearing it until morning, and hoping that whatever sleep he manages to snatch from tonight will ease things enough to make the drive safer and more bearable.

He doesn't get much actual sleeping done, though, it feels like every time he starts getting comfortable, something wakes him again, whether that's a nagging need to cough, or discomfort enough to need to roll over, or the fact that he is still feeling that nagging, desperate tickle that just won't seem to leave him alone. It backs down occasionally, just enough to make him think that it might be satisfied, and then it returns with a vengeance and a handful of sneezes that set his eyes to watering and scrape at an already raw throat.

He rubs at his eyes and has to practically crawl into the front seat to get enough light to read his watch. Twelve oh three. It's past midnight, now. He groans, and it triggers a rough cough that has him having to lean forward to feel like he can take a full breath and end the paroxysm. When it finally tapers off again, he hangs his head wearily. Maybe he should just start driving now, since he clearly isn't going to be getting much sleep?

No. That's a foolish idea. He can still feel the boiling heat of his skin, even if none of that heat seems to have transferred to the rest of him. He should at least try and rest, even if he can't sleep.

He lays back down, half propped up now to try and ease the congestion in his head and his chest.

He can't keep the numbers straight. What time was it? He squints at his phone instead of the awkward gymnastics like last time, and--ow! Maybe he should have remembered to turn the brightness down, the light has him feeling like it's searing his eyes. He can feel that telltale prickle in his nose, that wave of irritation that always accompanies the bright light, and despite his best efforts, he's never been good at holding back, but especially when he's in the grips of an absolutely hellacious headcold.

"hH...hUH-!? uUDDZZHHyue! 'DZZHhue! hu-UZZHHieww!" It elicits a whimper of discomfort as he rubs at his throat, trembling fingers settling over sweat-slick skin. His nose threatens to drip, a droplet of moisture clinging to raw nostrils and shivering with every breath. It's so ticklish that it steals his breath away again. "Please don't--hIEZZHH'hue! 'DZZHHyue!"

Fingers scrabble uselessly over the floorboards until they catch hold of the tee shirt he was wearing this morning, and he brings it to his face to muffle the last sneeze into, and then blows fiercely in a zealous attempt at delaying the next fit as long as possible.

For all this, he still doesn't manage to catch the time. He braces himself, angling the screen away from himself enough to give a couple attempts to turning the brightness all the way down, before he finally looks at it again. Twelve twenty-seven. He slumps back against the seat and just lets himself lay there shivering.

He finally dozes off sometime around twelve forty-five, one o' clock, and isn't sure when he actually opens his eyes again. Someone is knocking on the window, shining a flashlight in that makes it impossible to see their face from the glare. He raises a hand to half shield his eyes, squinting at the figure to try and make anything out about them. "Hello?"

"Sir, please step out of the vehicle."

"Am I--am I in trouble?"

"Sir."

He awkwardly acquiesces, untangling himself from the blanket and the way he's been folded up as best as he can, fumbling to unlock the door and get himself out of the vehicle. The beige of the uniform and the vague outline of the patches look like it's probably a park ranger. Or was it a state trooper that'd regulate out here? Did they wear beige? Maybe they wore blue? Either way, they're getting aggressive, banging on the window more forcefully as they bark to get out of the car.

He straightens up and is surprised to find that they're nearly the same height--the figure behind the flashlight still obscured, the hat shielding their face in shadow. "Do you know why I'm talking to you?"

"Oh. It--I'm not drunk, if that's your fear. I'm not sleeping off anything worse than a cold and some expired cold medicine."

"Did you really think you would get off that easily?"

"I don't understand--"

"Man, he wasn't kidding. You really are an idiot."

"What are you--"

"Come on, Elliott. Did you really think that this little game was gonna last forever?"

His blood is like ice in his veins. "Who are you?"

"Friend of your husband's. Well, former husband's. In the eyes of the law, anyway. You broke your vow to be married, you know that?"

"I didn't do anything wrong, I--this isn't any of your concern!?"

He flinches when they grab him by the collar--

--and wakes with a horrified gasp, hands gripping at his shirt and at his collar to push away the hands that aren't there. He looks around in a panic, and is met with nothing but the interior of his car, the sound of his alarm chiming merrily on his phone from the top of the center console. He buries his face in his hands with a shaking exhale, his heart thudding in his chest and threatening to leap right out. "Oh, God have mercy."

He is absolutely cloaked in sweat, his clothes sticking to his body weirdly, and he extracts himself from the backseat with a groan of pain. His back, finicky at the best of times, is absolutely livid with him for the mistreatment. Leaning against the side of his car, he stretches as best he can, and grunts with satisfaction when he can get a couple good cracks from his spine that seems to make things a touch less angry. It won't do anything for his neck and sleeping at a weird angle, but he can spend tonight curled up on the heating pad.

His nose twitches, and he just braces against the car to let the inevitable fit wrack his frame. "YIZZHHuue! hH'HIDZH-! IDZZHH'ieww! Huh--! h-hUH--!? UDZZHH'hue! uDZH'iew! 'GZZHHyue! hH--!? ...sdf!" He sneezes openly towards the gravel, feeling his nose dripping freely, before he drags a sleeve beneath still quivering nostrils. Mornings are always rough on him, but he has to admit that this fit feels particularly harsh, and only half finished. He needs to find something that's not his clothing to contain this with.

He half shuffles towards the bathroom, and thanks God that they don't lock it at night. The glaring lights sting his eyes, and he knows he's going to sneeze from that, too. He barely catches sight of himself in the mirror, before he's forced to squeeze his eyes shut again.

"iEZZHHieww! iIDZZHH'hue! 'DZZHHue! Ohh...hh...h-hHIIZZHHyuuee!" He holds frozen in place for another couple of seconds, before he sighs with not exactly relief, but at least he's sure he's done for the time being. He opens his eyes and grimaces, the mirror now speckled with the contents of a cold. Paper towels squeak against the glass as he wipes it away haphazardly, and when his reflection is revealed through smudged streaks, his nose is practically the same shade of dark red as his dress shirt is.

The toilet paper is scratchy against his nose when he swipes a handful of it, but it's much softer than the paper towels, or damp fabric, so it's the best he's got for the time being. He's stopping at the first 24 hour convenience store or mini-mart or whatever it happens to be that he passes, and buying another box or three of tissues, and some cold medicine that isn't horribly out of date.

The first step, though, is getting out of here and back towards civilization. He washes his hands thoroughly, and then washes his face somewhat to try and do something about just how bad he looks, all smudged makeup and exhaustion and feverish sweat, and calls it good when his efforts are barely rewarded. He'll hardly be the worst thing somebody's seen walking into their store at three in the morning. He should really keep a change of clothes in the trunk again. He doesn't remember what he used the last set for, but he definitely forgot to replace them.

He rolls slowly for a few miles, knuckles whitened from just how hard he's gripping the wheel, afraid he's gonna miss his turn and be stuck out here in bumfuck nowhere, with no idea where he is or any ability to call somebody for help.

He finds the stop sign and hooks a sharp left, and nearly jumps out of his skin when the silence is broken by his phone suddenly dinging a half a dozen times in the passenger seat. Evidently he's crossed back into reception. He throws it in park and hits the hazards to check them, because it's not like there's much happening out here that's going to demand his attention.

Messages from Matt and Colleen, thanking him from being a part of the wedding, and a copy of a couple of the photos they took. One of them requests his address to send an official thank-you card. A handful of texts from Bolormaa, Niklas, and the Captain, asking him if he made it home safe since he never let them know (like he PROMISED, one reminds him). A reminder from Corben that he has to go to work early tonight so he needs to pick Warren up the instant he gets off of work, or else lock up when he leaves if they don't overlap and see eachother.

His head aches. That heavy, sharp pressure-y sort of pain in his sinuses that makes his teeth ache like they're going to be forced out of his skull. The fabric of the tee shirt, still damp and somewhat chafing over already raw skin, is brought to his face as he blows his nose for what must be the millionth time since yesterday morning, and he's somewhat relieved to find that for once it seems to actually have done something useful for him. He can still feel the sinus pressure--he's probably not escaping this one without an infection, which means there's likely a trip to urgent care in his future--but it's less painful and more just tight and itchy.

He sniffs thickly and swallows the last few sips from a water bottle whose age could probably be carbon dated at this point. Right. First thing's first. As much as he really doesn't want to, he should...probably make at least one call.

His phone screen is lit up as it rings, displaying the phone number and "Captain (Work)" with a little emoji of an anchor and a sailboat. The tickle that's been satisfied up until now flares to life again as he waits for him to pick up. It is, to say the least, inconvenient.

A groggy "hello?" greets him.

He means to say 'hello' back. Instead, he responds with a disgustingly productive sneeze, half of an apology, and then another three sneezes that leave his nose running like a dang tap.

"Bless you."

"Captain, don't be mad."

"You know, no one ever calls me at three in the morning for good news, do they?"

"I'm probably going to be late this morning."

"I already gave you the day off?"

"I--I didn't think that we ever agreed--"

"You didn't agree. I was clear. You sound awful. Worse than yesterday by a longshot, for sure. Did you fall asleep before you could let the three people in my car beside themselves with worry know that you were home safe?"

He doesn't know how to respond, feeling the shame creeping up his neck, so he doesn't, aside from wet sniffles.

"...Elliott."

"Yes, sir?"

"You did make it home safe, didn't you?"

"Uhm..."

"Elliott."

"Not--not...exactly?"

"What does 'not exactly' mean?"

He fiddles with the button by his collar, nervous fingers instinctively finding something to busy themselves with. "I'm, uhm...still up here?" He rushes through the last part quickly and softly, as if this will absolve him of the reaction to it.

"STILL UP THERE?" He has to hold the phone away from his face at the sudden increase in volume, which is doing nothing to help his headache. "You mean to tell me you're still up at the venue?"

"A couple miles away to get reception..."

"So when we offered you to drive you home, to have any one of us take your car or go with you and you just drop us off and then take yourself home, and you swore you were fine--"

"Please don't be mad--"

"I'm not mad, I'm concerned. Hold on, I need to put my eyes on. Do not hang up."

"I'll be fine, I just--I might sneeze, sor-ryhh--?" He holds up a finger in warning, as if it would actually be useful to someone a hundred miles from his car, but he sags with a sigh that the Captain mirrors. "I can drive myself, I'm--well, I'm not feeling better, but I'm a little less tired, and I'm stopping somewhere to buy medicine, so that should help, and when I get home I promise I'll try and sleep a little more."

"And?"

"And then...be into work?"

That's the wrong answer. He can practically feel the disapproving look through the phone. "And then you will take another dose, pick up the bairn from him, and then go back to sleep. She's old enough, she can mind herself. Leave a little supper in a dish and she and the cat will be happy to take their dinner the same way."

"I'm not feeding my daughter like a cat?"

"Well you're also not coming to work, so you can decide if you'd rather do both, or neither."

"I hardly think--"

"Elliott Anthony, if you come into work, I am picking you up and throwing you over my shoulders like a sack of potatoes and carrying you back to my car, and if you're too heavy, I employ enough strapping men and women that one of them will be capable in my stead. Go home, SAFELY, and call me the instant your feet hit the threshold. Do I make myself clear?"

He cows under the use of his middle name, and finally offers little more than a sheepish "...yes, sir."

"Good. I am going back to sleep now, but if you feel at all like you're not going to make it, you call me, or someone else, and we will make sure you make it back safe and sound."

"Thank you. Uhm, Captain...?"

"Yes?"

"I just...you were right. I just wanted to say I was sorry."

He sighs, the sound hazy through the crackle of a poor connection. "Son, I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to be safe. I don't want to have to put 'hard-worker' on your epitaph."

"You're so old that I doubt you'll outlive me--I mean--that's not what I meant--?"

"I'm holding you to that. I expect to be long gone before you are. Drive safe, y'hear?"

"Loud and clear, O Captain my Captain."

"Goodnight, Elliott."

"Goodnight, sir."

The line goes dead, and he sits there for another minute more. The drive is going to suck, but at least he'll be stopping somewhere to stretch his legs and get something in his system. He still isn't hungry by any stretch of the imagination, but he figures most stores have a can of soup or broth, maybe a Gatorade, something to give him a little boost and into better shape.

The drive is quiet for the most part, aside from the sounds of his own suffering, but he's pleased when the radio crackles back to life from the dull static and into what he has to assume are songs forty through seventy of the Top Hundred Hits of the Seventies, Eighties, and Nineties. His throat's still raw, but that doesn't stop him from whispering along to "Hooked on a Feeling," nor does it stop him from occasionally breaking into the least strenuous parts of "Dancing Queen". Even if he could, he never sings around anyone but himself--for their benefit. He's been assured, and would assure others in turn, that he couldn't carry a tune in a lidded bucket. The only songs coaxed from him around others are the hymns with the other parishioners where he can be lost as one of many, or occasionally "Happy Birthday" if the recipient is suitably close to him, and forgiving enough to grin and bear it.

He almost misses his exit towards the gas station because he's so preoccupied scrubbing at his nose, but he catches the sign just in time to make an inadvisably hasty turn onto the exit ramp, along with the one other soul on the road at this hour. Unsurprisingly, the middle of nowhere at three forty-five is not a popular place for a Sunday drive.

It's some little store that is, in his opinion, flirting dangerously close to the line of copyright infringement on Walmart, some weird little "Shop Mart" in a cheery blue that's only half lit by the sign above it. He parks, badly, and steps inside with the last couple of tissues out of the box pressed against his leaking nose.

The fluorescents hum overhead like a bug zapper, as he browses the aisles. It's slim pickings for most things, and the cashier's left her checkstand to hover suspiciously close behind him while he shops. Evidently he either looks more suspicious than he thinks he does, or she's just bored. He ghosts a hand over a couple different options for cold medicine--all name brands at absurd prices, before eventually deciding this is a DayQuil SEVERE kind of cold and not a Sudafed Sinus Congestion Relief Maximum Strength kind of cold.

It's awkward to finagle the things into his arms--they don't have any baskets, unless she's hiding them somewhere or they're in a goofy spot--and pins that beneath one arm so he can snag a couple boxes of tissues. One step above the worst, cheapest ones they've got, to compensate since he's going to be spending so much on the medicine. The cashier still doesn't say anything, she just watches him like he's not the most conspicuous man on planet earth. He's the only person here, the only car in the lot aside from, presumably, her own, and he stands a lanky 6'3 with an extraordinarily obvious red nosed cold and a braid that hangs down to his thighs. He would hardly be able to say 'you've got the wrong guy'.

He opts to take what he's already picked up to the counter to drop them there, in an effort to assuage her worries, but also to give his his free hand back, since the other is still occupied fussing with his nose. He squints at the options they've got for soup, which are worse than he would have hoped, and instead gets a can of Spaghetti-O's, since they're the only thing that don't need a can opener, which defeats the 'convenience' aspect of a 'convenience store' in his opinion, but he digresses, and then stands there staring at the drink options. He goes for a red Gatorade, and then grabs a light blue to go with it after another second's thought. It will be a long drive, after all.

"Hey, have y'all got a bathroom I can use?"

"For paying customers only."

"You just watched me pick things out?"

"You haven't paid yet."

"This would be a lot of effort just to deceive you into bathroom usage."

"Look, man, you've gotta pay first. I don't make the rules."

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't press the topic any further, dropping his remaining purchases onto the counter, and very pointedly pulls his wallet out of his pocket.

She scans his items at a snail's pace, denying his reach for the box of tissues. "Your total will be twenty six dollars and eighty three cents."

He hands her his card, eyeing the tissues longingly. She swipes it, and tells him, deadpan, "you card declined. Do you wanna try another one?"

"Declined? What--you know what, fine, I've got cash, hold on." Great. That means the child support is late--again. He digs through his wallet, and comes up with a grant total of...twenty five eighty six. "...hold on. Just--don't put any of this back. I have some change in the car."

"I'm trying to go on my smoke break."

"You can't give me two minutes? Can't spare a hundred and twenty seconds?"

"Fine."

Well, she is definitely not getting a good survey from the link on his receipt. He is very quickly running out of time--for the tissues in his hand, until the next fit he can feel threatening to creep up at any second, until the cashier decides to go take her break. He doesn't even count, just grabs the handful of loose change from the cubby in front of the console and hustles back in to stop her from leaving her post again. "This should cover it."

She hums in thought. "Sorry, that was a hundred and thirty-eight by the clock on the wall. I'll see you in fifteen."

"Are you--?" Oh. She is serious. She makes her way back from behind the counter to go stand outside and light her cigarette.

He follows her out to just watch her, then. "Can you at least let me open the tissues?"

"That's stealing."

She and Florence would be best friends with their matching bad attitudes, he's sure of it. He tries to always be respectful and not think badly of anyone else, especially a woman, but he is fighting with every fiber of his being to bite his tongue. "Okay."

He swipes at his nose again with the last of his tissues, well beyond their use and now just serving to further irritate his skin. He's breathing through his mouth mostly out of necessity, but also because he's too afraid to really attempt to breathe through his nose. He knows that one wrong breath is going to have him sneezing, and...

Oh. That would be terribly unkind of him, wouldn't it? Something he definitely shouldn't do?

He goes back inside to wait, feeling the lingering irritation heightened by the smoke outside, and stands patiently next to the checkstand. She takes her sweet time, drifting back in a minute or so early, and watching the clock. "Hold on. I've still got a minute left."

That's fine by him. He reaches up to rub his nose, feeling his breath scissor from that last little nudge. With nothing left to use, and the tissues being held hostage, he goes with the only option he has left. Really she's left him no choice.

"h-hH'IGZZHHuhh! uHHDZZHHyue! Hh...hyIZZHHieww! 'DZZHHuuee!" He pitches into cupped hands that are still holding the spare change, feeling the way each sneeze tears through his sinuses and threatens to bend him at the waist. "Ohh...sdfff! Please excuse me." He drops the coins, each now rather shiny, onto the counter. "Keep the change." He gives her his sweetest smile, scooping the items off the counter and into his arms and pointedly ignoring her horrified expression.

That was so gross and unkind of him. He knows he'll regret it when he thinks about it later, but right now, he feels stupidly empowered. He tears open the tissues and tends to his nose as delicately as possible, and then takes a swig of the DayQuil and one of the Gatorades. It's a little past four now, so he's still got just enough time to make it home and then shower before going into work...

Well. Maybe taking that sick day he was offered wouldn't be terrible...since it's been offered to be paid and all, and he is feeling so poorly. He supposes he'll just decide when he gets home. He's got about an hour and a half, maybe a little less, to mull it over while he's driving.

He texts Bolormaa and Niklas while he's thinking about it, just to tell them that he's still alive and on the road, and he knows when they wake up later and see it they'll be calling him up to ask what on earth he means by 'on the road' at this hour when he should be sleeping off this cold and cozy in his blankets. He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. For now, he's got to get moving or he'll be late for whatever he chooses.

He only has to pull over once so he can sneeze--he opts to keep driving for most of the fits that overtake him, but that one was too much to really consider it responsible to be operating a motor vehicle with his eyes closed--and he slumps in through his front door at just a shade past five thirty. He feels absolutely worse for wear, and the exhaustion that's been nibbling at him hits him full force when the relief sets in that he's finally made it.

The apartment stands empty to welcome him home, but he doesn't know that he's disappointed by the lack of company. He doesn't think he's feeling exceptionally social or in good shape to be people-ing right now. He makes straight for the bedroom first, beyond eager to try and get himself into some semblance of order, and to at least grab something clean to change into Whether he's working after this or not--he still isn't quite sure what he's going to do--he'll still need socks and underwear, and can choose the rest of his outfit once he's done showering.

The first thing he does when he hits the bathroom is to strip nude, grimacing at how gross these clothes are and what he's put them through, and then he hauls his sorry self into the shower to wash up. He just stands there for awhile with his head resting against the wall, the hot water pouring over aching muscles, steam lovingly kissing his swollen sinuses. He nearly falls asleep, realizing he's dozing when he has to shoot an arm out to steady himself against the wall, and decides it's high time to actually try and clean himself up a little instead of just enjoying boiling himself like a lobster.

He doesn't want to even bother with washing his hair, but he knows if he doesn't he'll just spend the rest of the day thinking 'gosh, I ought to've' and that he should just do it and get it over with. His shampoo--one of the few things he spends an indulgent amount on as a luxury instead of a necessity--smells earthy and floral, richly scented like lavender.

Usually it's quite soothing, like being wrapped up in a candle, or a field in full bloom. Usually. He groans when it makes his nose tingly as he squeezes it into his palm, but he isn't going to just waste it, nor is he going to just not wash his hair. He's already sneezed enough for his liking--more than enough, really!--but he doesn't intend to just throw his hands up because his shampoo is adding itself to the list of things that are going to set a terribly sensitive nose off.

He's only partially through lathering it into his hair when he feels the need to sneeze swell, stealing the breath from his lungs in a shaky gasp, and then is bent at the waist with a desperately insistent, "iiIZZHHyue!" that doesn't seem to put a dent into the itch that's wormed itself deep into every nook and cranny of his senses. "hAH--ADZZHHuuee! 'GZZHHieww!" Oh God. This is really going to be bothersome, isn't it? "hiIGZZHH'ieww! yiIZZHH'hue!" He's just standing there, half propped against the wall by his elbow, stuttering attempts at continuing to scrub at his scalp to just muscle through it that are interrupted by the fact that he just locks up as he sneezes. The sooner he's done, the sooner he can wash this out of his hair, he doesn't even care if he has to skip the conditioner, he can just do a slipshod job at getting his skin clean and move the heck on.

He half whimpers as another pair of sneezes tear their way out of him, clawing over his throat in abject misery, and he finally just stands under the water with the awkward tall-guy-shower-squat that reminds him he will never, ever be able to be considered sexy if he showers with another human being. It washes over him in a sudsy cascade, and he does an exceptionally haphazard job at trying to get his skin clean before calling the whole thing a wash--literally and figuratively--and shutting the water off with a pitiful "ah--hAH-!? hADZZHHyue!" that seems to, mercifully, signal the end of this for the time being.

Yeah, no, he can't do this. He will take a half day instead, catch a couple hours of sleep before he drags himself in for the second half of his shift--it would be so selfish to take the whole day when they were already closed yesterday, they'll be so behind on their orders...

He shoots a text to the Captain, then begins the process of drying off his hair. Sometimes he thinks he should just cut it all off, but he also knows that if he was ever attempted to be taken up on this offer, he would back away in a heartbeat. It's a hassle sometimes, but certainly no accident that it's this long. It took a lot of effort! He's not just going to waste that all on a whim!

He knows that it is the worst thing he could possibly do if he wants it to dry faster, but he braids his hair anyway, because at least that way he can get some sleep without rolling over onto it and darn near tearing it out of his skull in the middle of the night. Or morning, in this case. A pair of sweatpants and an honestly kind of ratty tee shirt from Warren's old elementary PTA later, and he all but collapses into his blankets. The alarm set for eleven feels absolutely cruel, but it at least gives him a little under five hours, and that probably more than doubles what he slept in total last night, so it's something.

He's dimly aware, as he drifts off, of the birdsong just outside the window, and the sunrise that's flooding over the horizon and into the crack around the shades to his bedroom window, of the fact that he has potentially never been quite so cozy in his entire life, cold notwithstanding. Hopefully he sleeps well.

⁂

When he finally cracks his eyes open, he is struck immediately by two things: the first, that he remarkably feels almost exactly the same as when he fell asleep, just markedly less tired, and the second, that it is not as bright in this room as it really should be for eleven. He rolls over with a congested snuffle and squints at the phone on the nightstand--that's dead as a doornail. Oh no.

He fights to wrestle lethargic limbs from the tangle of blankets he's found himself caught up in, enough to stagger out into the living room to squint into the kitchen at the microwave. Five thirty-three.

FIVE THIRTY-THREE!?

Oh God. He's basically missed all of work. Even if he left right now, he wouldn't even make it there before it had ended. He has to at least try--no, more than that, he has to go get Warren--no, first he has to text the Captain and apologize--

That needs a phone. He practically throw himself onto the bed like he's diving to catch a ball and swats his phone off the nightstand in his haste to grab it and plug it in. It takes a second to light up and display "0%" and a flashing battery symbol to let him know, just in case he was wondering, that he forgot to plug it in before crawling in for an eleven hour nap. He pleads with it to hurry along enough to hit the one percent that'll let him turn it on, to at least throw it on speaker and make a couple calls.

When it does blink on, it's silent for a few seconds, the anticipation weighty, before suddenly everyone on earth's messages roll in all at once in a cacophony of notification. One from the Captain, saying he hopes that he's feeling better (and that he has tomorrow off as well, whether he likes it or not.) One from Corben, some snide comment that he needn't worry about fulfilling his obligation as a father, someone else has already done it. Several from Niklas, telling him that he is an absolute fool for having refused the offer of a ride last night, and to PLEASE accept it next time, or they'll stop asking and just start forcing if he doesn't know what's good for him.

The ones that catch his attention most are the several from Bolormaa, who's never been a big texter, informing him that he and Erdeni picked up the kid and they will be having a girl's night (and he can pick her up in the morning), and a somewhat cryptic message that there is a surprise on the porch for him.

He reads through each one again for a moment, letting it all solidify in his mind before attempting to reply to them all with the most graceful and courteous responses he can manage when his head feels packed with wet cement and it's rather distracting. When he sits back up, the congestion shifts enough that he is urgently reminded that he is in the thick of this cold, and he can't help but--" 'GZZHHuu! uUDZHHyuuee!" They seem satisfied, for now, as a pair that are hastily half-caught into corner of his blankets

Gross. He grimaces as he exchanges his bedding for a handful of tissues, attempting to be tender with his poor nose as he moves for the front door instead. Porch is a rather generous way to put it, it's little more than a landing between floors and the apartment across the way from him, which typically plays host to the trash pickup and nothing else. This morning--or evening, rather--it's also currently hosting a grocery bag with a note taped to the side of it. He squats to peel it off and examine it. It's in Bolormaa's hand, a little drawing of a horse adorning one of the corners.

Elliott-

Hey you sadsack, I heard you were missing work today. Don't ever make us worry about you like that again. It isn't quite soup, but here. Bansh + suutei tsai. It's so easy you can't mess it up. Boil the suutei tsai, add the bansh, let it cook for 10 to 15 until they float, and bam! You've made banshtai tsai. It's better without precooking or letting it cool in between, but I don't have a key to your apartment, and I'm too lazy to come back over and cook once you're awake. I'll get my containers back from you tomorrow when we drop the kid off

Bolormaa + Erdeni

The bag contains a pair of tupperwares, one filled with a thick milky liquid, the other with a generous portion of what might be, in his estimation, the smallest dumplings known to man that have an additional note on the top, informing him that they forgot he was vegetarian, and they have meat in them. He's only mostly vegetarian, so it works out well enough, and he's absolutely touched regardless.

Google informs him, after looking up the individual components because "banshtai tsai" keeps trying to redirect to "banshee tsai" which is nothing, that this is a savory milk tea and dumplings, and apparently the tea is rather auspicious and a part of welcoming people to the home. That's cute. He feels better already.

He doesn't have much in the way of cooking expertise (or skill), but if there's one thing he can do reliably, it's turn the heat up and boil the devil out of something. It smells kind of odd, but when he takes a little sip, he at least recognizes it for what it is. It's what he's sipped a few times out of a water bottle that was not his--he really should look into adding a nametag to his to prevent this from happening in the future--so it's at least not an entirely new experience. The dumplings are, but that's mostly because he always brings buuz to potlucks, and these don't seem terribly different, aside from the size of them.

He's lost in flipping between a handful of open tabs of recipes and the Wikipedia page for traditional Mongolian cuisine when a pop of hot tea on his forearm informs him that it's boiling already. He awkwardly pours them out of their container into the boiling tea, using every inch of the fact that he's lanky to keep the rest of him as far away from the splash zone as he can manage. How people just plop things in astounds him.

If he could smell much of anything, he's sure it would smell great. It at least looks good, and that's half the battle, for sure. And honestly, even if it's just awful, he's going to eat it anyway, because the kindness in the gesture is profoundly touching him right now, and maybe it's the fever, but he feels so utterly loved that he can hardly stand himself. A watched pot never boils, and watched dumplings never float, so he turns heel and busies himself with trying to decide whether he thinks a mug or a bowl would be more appropriate. He eventually settles on neither, or perhaps both, and fishes the soup mug out of the back of the cabinet, all bright cheery color and charming little stripes.

When it seems ready, and has been given a second to cool enough that he doesn't think the mug will blow up right there on his counter, or, worse, in his hands, he ladles some in, and just lets himself breathe in the steam. This isn't exactly the ideal chaser to cold medicine, but it at least does a good job of getting the taste out of his mouth, and he feels his shoulders sag with relief at the feeling of warmth that blooms in his chest from it.He takes himself, tea and all, back to bed, and curls back up into his blankets with his dinner. It's sometime later, when the tea has been finished and set aside on the nightstand, that he finally lets himself once again succumb to the fatigue that's crept back into his frame, a sense of utter love permeating his being.

#i'm loving Elliott more and more each time #but !! he has suffered enough !!!#uhhhhh #he has awakened my caretaker side #bless his heart and soul #sneezefic #snzfic #snz fic #sneeze fic #sneeze kink

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snz-thoughts · 3 days

Text

It's allergy season and I was looking back through my old writings and found this short allergy-centric fic I wrote several years ago in response to a request. I don't know that I ever posted it here on Tumblr, but even if I did, there's a lot more people here than back in 2019 when I wrote it.

It's OCs, modern day setting, takes place in Egypt. Thom is a grad student in Archeology doing a practicum placement in Egypt. Turns out, there's still pollen and allergens in the desert... enjoy :)

---

The jingle of a cell phone ring broke through the cloud of white noise coming from the air purifier and the AC unit. Thom rolled over and reached for the phone, almost knocking it off the bedside table as he fumbled sleepily.

He squinted at the display and toggled the slider to answer.

“Mhm? Hello?”

“I'm out front. It's ten past.”

Thom sat up with a start and blinked at the clock across the room.

“Oh fuck. I'm sorry Asha, I overslept. Give me a few and I'll be right down.”

He kicked off the sheets and tore through his closet in the small flat for a fresh pair of khakis and a thin linen shirt. He splashed some water on his face and ate a banana quickly while he refilled his water bottle and searched for his baseball cap. Thankfully, his backpack was still stocked from the previous day of work, so he slung it over his shoulder, grabbed his keys, and raced down the two flights of stairs out into the busy Luxor street.

Though it was barely seven, the sun was already blazingly hot. Asha sat, idling her motorcycle and chatting with a street vendor.

“Sorry, sorry,” Thom said as he approached.

“Doctor Rutledge is gonna kill us,” she said, pushing her helmet back down and handing the spare one to Thom. “Let's go.”

Thom sided onto the bike, put on the heavy face-shielded helmet, and took hold of Asha's waist. The bike roared to life and they sped off towards the dig site.

He'd first met Asha two months ago when he'd come to Egypt for his practical experience under the tutelage of renowned Egyptologist, Doctor Emila Rutledge. Asha was a daughter of Luxor, born and raised in the city and her knowledge of its winding streets and the surrounding archeological sights had proved very useful. She was a local assistant on the dig, helping with some of the more tedious sorting and packing of artifacts. And her motorbike was a much faster way to reach the desert than taking a bus and then walking.

They turned down a street leading out of the city and towards the Theban Necropolis dig site. The bike slowed as they turned down the side road and came to a halt where the road turned to sand.

They tugged off their helmets, the sweat dripping down their faces drying instantly in the arid climate. With Asha pushing the bike, they walked the last bit down the sandy path to the tents that marked the research areas.

Thom blinked in the dry air and rubbed at his left eye, turning it a little pink. As they ducked under the canopy of the first tent, he cleared his throat and took a deep swig of his water bottle.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, capping the bottle and putting it back in his pack. “It's my fault. I didn't set a proper alarm.”

Doctor Rutledge looked up from her table of equipment and glared at him.

“There's limited time out here during the storm season,” she warned him. “Don't waste it being late.”

March and April in the desert meant sandstorms and sometimes they struck unexpectedly, plunging the camp into a fog of dust and undoing weeks of excavation work. Thankfully, none had hit the site thus far in the season.

Thom set down his things and turned to his work, Asha at his side, cataloguing a tray of rocks that had eroded off a nearby statue.

“You alright?” she asked, looking at him critically. “Your eyes are kinda pink.”

He blinked and rubbed at his left one again. They did feel a bit gritty.

“Still half asleep,” he said. “Didn't have time for coffee.”

She laughed.

“You'll have to suffer until break then.”

Thom nodded and made a mark in his notebook about one of the artifacts. He rubbed the back of his hand to his nose distractedly, pawing away an itch.

In the distance, the air was growing murky and dim as a far-off storm kicked up sand into the air, turning the sky an unworldly red.

His throat felt drier than usual out in the heat of the open desert. Putting his notebook down, he reached again for his water bottle.

“You sure you're fine?” Asha asked suspiciously. “Your eyes look awful.”

Thom pushed his water bottle cap shut and opened his mouth to answer her, but he was distracted by a sudden, very urgent itch. He wrinkled his nose and turned away, cupping his hands to his face.

Hurh-TSGHT!

“Blessings to you,” she offered.

Thom sniffled and wiped at his nose. He could feel the familiar burning of an allergic reaction growing in his respiratory system and suddenly his stomach sank. In the haste of his departure that morning, he'd neglected to take his allergy medication.

He'd always been someone who struggled with allergies, to everything from cats to pollen to mold and dust. His youth had been full of inhalers on the sidelines of the soccer pitch, extra allergy pills packed for sleepovers, and his own air purifier for his college dorm room. Adulthood had not improved things as much as he'd hoped. He'd expected that the dry air of Egypt would be a relief to his hayfever, but he'd been warned about dust-storm season and the large amounts of pollen and mold and dust kicked up by the strong winds. The local pharmacy had put out a display of face masks only a week prior.

“Oh shit,” he groaned, digging through his backpack. Maybe he had some spare pills stowed away.

“What?” Asha asked.

“Ugh, my allergies,” he said, sniffling again. “I forgot my medicine this morning.”

“Wow, you really did fuck up the start of your day,” she teased. “You have allergies? Bad ones?”

“Yes, bad ones,” he said, reaching to the bottom of an outside pocket and feeling his rescue inhaler. At least that was some relief. “Bad enough to need a prescription daily.”

“And it's storm season,” she said. “The worst for that.”

“I've been told,” he said miserably. He could feel his eyes beginning to water and he ran his tongue along the top of his mouth and back towards his throat, trying to settle an itch.

Hhrr-TSGHHT!

He sneezed roughly into his shoulder.

“Well,” he said, pulling a bandanna out of his pack. “This might help a little.”

He tied the triangle of cloth over his nose and mouth, tucking the excess into the top of his shirt.

“Very mysterious,” Asha teased. “My work partner, Zorro.”

Thom went back to his notes, but concentrating was extremely difficult. He wrinkled his nose under the bandanna and tried to focus on his work, but the itching was too strong.

Hehh-ehh-GSHTT!

A damp spot blossomed on the bandanna under his nose.

He clamped a hand over the fabric and pinched his nose, turning away from Asha.

NghT! Hehh...eh-TSGHT! Tsh'GXHT!

Three rapid stifles tumbled forward, held in by his fingers.

Tsgh! Ehh-TSGH!

“Wow,” Asha said, watching. “You were not kidding.”

“No,” he said miserably, letting go of his nose. “This is pretty mild, actually. Usually I...I..hehhh...heh-TSGHT!”

He sneezed once again into the bandanna and tugged it free from his face, using it as a proper handkerchief.

“I'll ask around to see if anyone else has some medicine,” Asha offered. “Sit down a minute.”

He sunk into a camp chair with the bandanna over his nose.

Hehh-ehhhh-GSHTT!

By the time she returned, his breath was growing wheezy and his eyes were swollen. He coughed hoarsely into his fist and swallowed hard.

“No luck,” she said.

“What going on over here?”

Doctor Rutledge was standing behind them, looking expectantly at them both.

“Thom is having an allergic reaction, Doctor,” Asha explained. “I was looking around to see if anyone had any medication.”

“And?”

“No one does,” she said. “I'm sorry, Thom.”

“That's okay,” he croaked. “I just need a minute. I—heh-SGHHT!”

He sneezed thickly into the bandana and pinched his nose before giving it a sharp blow.

“It's storm season, Thom,” Doctor Rutledge said. “The longer you're out here, the worse it'll get.”

Ehhh-GSXHTT!

He was starting to feel the strain in his lungs and he fished in his bag, curling his fingers around his rescue inhaler just in case.

“I think you should go back home, Thom,” Doctor Rutledge said. “It looks like the winds are headed this way.”

He could barely see her through his watering eyes.

“Are you sure, doctor? I could go work in one of those more covered tents across the way.”

“No, that isn't necessary. Asha, will you get him home?”

“Yes, I'll do that.”

Doctor Rutledge turned to head back to her work as Thom launched into another fit.

Ehh-tsxSHTT! Ngh'GSHT!

Thom curled in on himself, sneezing rapidly.

Tsgh-GSHT Tsh'GHT! TXGHT!

He blew his nose hard into bandana and surfaced from the fit with a wheezy gasp.

“Hold on,” he croaked, raising the inhaler. “I need this first.”

He took a puff and breathed in the medication, holding it in as long as he could before he started to cough and exhaled nosily.

Asha sighed sympathetically and held out her water bottle. He took a deep swig from it and thanked her.

“Let's go before you get worse,” she said.

They returned to the motorcycle, going slowly along the path because of Thom's swollen eyes. He shoved the helmet over his leaky face and climbed on the bike behind Asha.

The ride back into Luxor was a blur of exhausted sniffling and two very unpleasant sneezes inside the helmet before they pulled up in front of Thom's apartment.

“C'mon,” Asha said gently, taking his arm and leading him inside. He started to climb the two flights of stairs but on the first landing he was forced to pause as another fit took over, wrenching him forward with several forceful sneezes that tore out of him rapid-fire.

Hurhhh-TSGHHH! Ngh-TSGHHT! Hehh....ehh-TSCHHH!

They staggered up the next flight and into Thom's flat. He swallowed two of his prescription pills from the medicine cabinet before slouching down into his sofa and taking another puff of his inhaler.

“I thought leaving England would be the end of all this mess,” he said miserably.

“Oh no, we've got all our own special allergens here too. Storm season is infamous. I'm sure you've been told.”

“I have,” he said. “I probably would still be a bit of mess with my prescription, but I can't believe I managed to forgot taking it at all!”

“I guess we'll see,” Asha said. “There's two months of this dust. Maybe invest in a mask. Lots of people wear them this time of year.”

Eh-TSCHH!

Asha shoved a box of tissues across the coffee table towards Thom.

“And maybe invest in a few more of those too. Sounds like you might need them.”

#sneezefic #snzfic #snz fic #sneeze fic #sneeze kink

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